2,742 and You
by Cosmical-Wallaby
Summary: You were living a good life, once. Now you're homeless on the streets of London. To make some money, you join the infamous homeless network of Sherlock Holmes. But when a simple task draws you into a far stranger world, you must decide where your loyalties lie.
1. Chapter 1

You walk, because you stink. Of course that's not the entire reason, you hardly have the money for a cab or the tube, but even if you did you wouldn't want to get into a cab like this. Because you stink.  
And it's bad enough knowing that without having a cabbie politely try to avoid the subject.  
You wish you had the money to go to a hostel for the night. Because at least then you could have a shower and a mirror and try to look half decent before you meet him. But hostel means money and if you had money…you would be here. Applying for this.  
You reach the place, tugging your hoodie around you for a second, stood on the doorstep. The cloth is rough, well worn, but a comfort all the same. Protection, the same way as a well dented shield, or a retired guard dog, fat in old age. Your hand ghosts across the knocker, once, twice, as you battle amongst yourself.  
You have to. There's no other way. But it's sick, sick and twisted.  
There's no other way.  
You knock. Once. If nobody answers, you decide, you will never come back.  
Deep down you know somebody will. But you still make the deal, because...at least then, you can pretend to have some control.

The door opens, slowly. You square your shoulders, standing as tall as you can, staring bolt ahead. He's tall, you know this from the papers. It's bad enough to have somebody look down on you from a metaphorical standpoint, you won't allow it from a physical one too.  
"Oh!" you hear, before you see. You allow your shoulders to droop a little as you look down at the woman who has answered. Old, or older at least, with short hair and a slight smile that quickly vanishes. She stares at you, a second of confusion before you see the realisation drop. She stands back, opening the door a little wider "Go right on up dear, just go straight in" she smiles. You force a smile back, biting back the urge to make some snide comment about stereotyping. Because she's right, of course. So instead, you smile, and nod, and walk past her.

At the top of the stairs, another door greets you. You raise your hand to the doorknob, and stop once more.  
"This is ridiculous" you say. To yourself, of course. You can't keep making bargains with yourself. You can't keep up these stupid notions of pride. That's why you got in this situation in the first place, after all "Just open the door" you mutter "Just open the door. Open the door. Open the door"  
"Open the bloody door, or go away!" comes a shout from inside. You freeze, a pit in your stomach at the realisation somebody heard you. That he heard you. Too late now.  
You open the door and step in the room like a man stepping up to the gallows. He lounges in an armchair across the room, only his eyes turning towards you. You know what he does, and the cold stare makes you feel strangely exposed. You wonder what he sees about you, what he knows already. You stare at his fingers, tapping against the arm, and try to focus on something, anything else. At least this is cold, clinical. Not the cloying stares of pity.  
"Mr. Holmes-" you start, only for your voice to break strangely "Mr. Holmes, I'm here to enquire about the…the um…" you will the words out, one by one. But of course, the final two brace against your throat, threatening to choke you. As they always do.  
"Homeless network" he finishes. You hate those words. The concept. It's sick. Using people like watchdogs, just because they need the cash. A category, so easy to manipulate from his cosy little flat.  
"Am I that obvious?" you blurt out. You know the answer, but you want his.  
"Yes". You were hoping to see some of the famous deduction skills, but obviously not today. He stands, and you can't help but frown. He's…shorter, than you expected. But the eyes, the eyes are exactly the same. He wanders across the room, and rummages around in the draws of a scattered, messy desk.  
"Name?" he asks, as he looks. You take a breath, then exhale again without answering, thinking for a moment. Then "Sam"  
He looks up at you, raising a single eyebrow "Real name?"  
"How do you know that wasn't my real name?" you counteract defensively.  
"Is it?"  
"It's what I go by" you shrug. That's a lie, you don't 'go by' anything. It was just the first name you thought of. Whether or not he knows this, he lets it drop  
"Age?"  
"Eighteen"  
"You can read and write?"  
"Yes"  
"Own a dog?"  
"No"  
"Any addiction?"  
"No!" you snap it, your teeth clicking together as you shut your mouth. He looks up again, still eerily calm, and frowns at you. Not disapproving so much as…confused.  
"It won't harm your chances. It's just something I need to take into account" he offers.  
"I'm clean" you hiss through your teeth. Unlike you, you add mentally. Deductions and crime solving are not the only rumours that you hear about Sherlock Holmes.  
"Very well" he picked something out the draw and tosses it to you. You fumble, just managing to catch it. It's a phone, old and battered "I'll text you the details. You'll be paid on an information basis, unless you are in immediate trouble. If you are caught, I won't be there to come to your aid. Hopefully this will be helpful to us both. I've needed somebody like you for a while" he looks as if he might continue, but instead waves a hand, walking back to his chair "Like I said. I'll text. Welcome to the homeless network"  
You wait for something else, you aren't sure what. After a few minutes of silence, it becomes apparent you are no longer wanted. You turn, closing the door behind you as you thrust the phone into your pocket.  
Hello, homeless network, you think to yourself as you exit 221b Baker Street  
Goodbye, pride.


	2. Chapter 2

Too white, and too wet. Those are your first impressions of the street. Not that the street alone is wet of course, it's been raining steadily for the last couple of days, but unlike most streets there aren't any handy alleyways or decorative trees to shelter under. No, this is a wide street, bordered by large white town houses with long drives and decorative hedge work.  
It might as well have money littering the street to make it more obvious that the people who live here are wealthy.  
And according to a text from a certain detective, one of them must be watched.  
The text was short and vague, and you suspect there's a reason for it. Simply an address, this address, a picture of a man and the words 'Note what times and company he keeps'. Signed SH, like you'd be getting texts from anybody else.  
You were expecting somewhere…awful. Under a bridge or watching in a back alley. Somehow this is worse. At least somewhere awful you could fit in, slump down and blend into it all. Here you might as well be holding a sign 'I don't belong'.  
It crosses your mind for a second you might be bait. You push it back down again. Sherlock Holmes may not be the most sympathetic person, but surely even he's above that.

You aren't quite sure how to watch the house. You walk up and down the street, head down, trying to look casual. But how casual can you look, pacing like a madman? It doesn't take long till you're exhausted. It doesn't take much, nowadays. Bad food and little to no sleep catches up quickly.  
You try standing. Looking like some teenage yob. Leaning against the hedges works better, it's almost comfortable, till you realise the rain dripping through has soaked your entire back.  
The house is empty. No car, no lights.  
In the end you sit, right beside the gate no less. The pavement is so clean you almost feel guilty. A vague, stupid worry at the back of your mind it'll be dirty when you stand up again. You sit for an hour, two, three. Check the phone, double checking the address, the picture.  
The man in the picture doesn't look like much. Thirty or so, expensive looking suit. Clean shaven. His eyes look cold, but perhaps that's just you, projecting your fears.  
You check the time. You've been waiting for five hours now. You're freezing cold and hungry. They aren't new feelings, but frustrating all the same.  
You dig in your bag and throw a cap down in front of you. Not a single person has passed you, but on the off chance they might, it's worth it. At least begging cements the façade as a homeless kid.  
Well. Not the façade. But the initial layer of what you are doing anyway.

The slam of a car door startles you awake. You scrabble forward for a second, confused at why you're sat on an unfamiliar street soaked to the skin. Then it comes back to you. You don't remember falling asleep, or how you even managed to under such conditions. Your hand twitches towards the cap. Empty. You turn towards the house, praying it's still empty, and finally notice the cab that's pulled up outside.  
A man is paying, swaying on his feet somewhat. You're frozen, watching out the corner of your eye, head down. He digs through the pockets of a battered suit jacket, nearly throwing the fare at the cabbie as he stumbles away, reaching out one hand to support himself along the hedge. You examine him carefully. His hair straggles down his neck and his face is party obscured by a scruffy short beard, but the cold eyes give him away. This is your man, if not as expected. At the gate he pauses, barely a foot away.  
He stinks. Not like you stink, he stinks of cheap alcohol and smoke, with a throat clenching undertone of stale vomit and expensive cologne. Somewhere between a homeless drunk and a city banker.  
You can't help but study him. He was handsome once, but he looks more like a shadow now. A wreck. You wonder who he is. Why he's important. He suddenly turns. You drop your gaze, but not before your eyes meet for a second. Up close, his eyes don't look cold. They look…sad. Dull and bloodshot, but mournful all the same. He clears his throat as if he might talk  
Opens his mouth  
Then quickly shuts it again, one hand pinned over it. His body heaves. You jump back, scrambling to your feet and quickly walking away. This night has been bad enough without getting thrown up on.

You're at the end of the street before you remember your cap if still there. You don't really need it, but you still double back to see if it's been destroyed. You don't have many possessions nowadays, it seems sad to leave it. The man is long gone, your cap sat untouched and vomit free. You snatch it up and to your surprise, something crunches inside. Opening it, a ten pound note looks back up at you. You frown, glancing between it and the house  
"Who are you?" you mutter, as if some cosmic entity might reply.  
It does not.


End file.
